


Lockdown

by crimson_snow



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But only a little, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, M/M, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining, Watford (Simon Snow), everything's good i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimson_snow/pseuds/crimson_snow
Summary: Simon growls, reaching up to run his hands through his hair. I want to fix it, push it down into place, then kiss the top of his head until he feels better. “I’m bored, Baz. We’ve been locked up in here for hours.”“And we’re going to be locked up in here for seven days, so find something to do that doesn’t involve setting the place on fire.”---Or, a spell goes wrong, two boys are locked in a tower, and no, Penny, neither of us are dead... yet.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 92
Kudos: 529





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm sick and tired of quarantine, and I wanted to write something vaguely similar-ish to make myself feel better.

“This is ridiculous.” 

Snow is pacing again, magic rolling off of him in furious waves. I keep my gaze fixed on my book, but don’t bother turning the page. He’s not paying enough attention to me to realize I’ve been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes. “There’s got to be some way around this.” He turns to me. “Baz.”

Ridiculous is certainly an apt description of our current situation. After a third year butchered a spell to a degree that even  _ Snow  _ has proved thus far incapable, managing to cover the grounds in an odd sort of pink mist that made anyone who stands in it fall head-over-heels in love (as much as a spell can do, which is more along the lines of lust-filled, obsessive infatuation) with anyone they see, everyone had been hastily quarantined in their rooms.

Thankfully, the effects wore off immediately once the person affected stepped outside of the mist, and it didn’t seem to want to ooze into any of the buildings, so the resulting chaos had been over fairly quickly.

Not-so-thankfully, I am now stuck in a room with Snow until the spell wears off, which Miss Possibelf had determined would be an entire  _ week _ \- seven fucking days of pure torture.

I wait a long moment - long enough that the smell of smoke begins to flood the air - before slowly raising my eyes to meet his gaze. “Yes?” I grind out, painfully polite. I’d rather not start a major fight on the first day of this; Merlin knows how we’re going to get through it already.

“Why can’t the Mage just use a counterspell?”

I lace my voice with just enough disdain to piss him off. “None are working.”  _ And even if they were, the  _ Mage _ would probably mess it up. _

He glares at me and resumes pacing. Crowley, I didn’t even do anything this time.

Chef Pritchard is supposed to be (magically) distributing food for dinner later, which will hopefully distract Snow for at least a few minutes, but for now we’re stuck in the room with nothing to do but yell at each other. The scent of smoke is getting stronger - I cough, then put my book down. I need to get him to calm down before he goes off. “Snow.”

He stops, spinning around to glare at me, fire in his eyes, but I just meet him with a bored gaze. “You need to calm down.”  _ How am I supposed to deal with this, nonstop, for a week? _

He throws himself on his bed. “How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I have to spend God knows how long locked up in this room with you.”

I choose to ignore the opportunity to make fun of him for swearing like a Normal. Honestly, I ought to be given a medal for holding my temper. “Really, Snow? I’m just sitting here reading. You’re the one lumbering around like a numpty, throwing magic everywhere. Learn to bloody control it.”

He growls, reaching up to run his hands through his hair. I want to fix it, push it down into place, then kiss the top of his head until he feels better. “I’m  _ bored _ , Baz. We’ve been locked up in here for hours.”

“And we’re going to be  _ locked up in here _ for seven days, so find something to do that doesn’t involve setting the place on fire.” 

It’s not like  _ I’m _ happy to be stuck in a room with Snow for a week. Merlin knows it’s already bad enough seeing him in the few minutes before bed and in the morning, but I’m not complaining. Yet.

Snow groans and presses his face into the pillow. Less than a minute later, he stands up and calls his sword, probably to practice, rather than run me through with it.  _ Merlin and Morgana, no. _ I don’t think I can stand watching him jumping around the room with that thing, both because of the potential breakage of my belongings and the unavoidable muscle-flexing it will involve.

“Crowley, Snow, anything but that,” I drawl, and Snow turns on me, eyes burning.

“If you have any other suggestions, Pitch, feel free to let me know,” he snaps. It’s one of the most coherent sentences I’ve heard from him in a while - probably because the words are borrowed almost directly from me. “Otherwise, fuck off.”

“Read a book.  _ Attempt _ to complete your homework. I could go on?” I sneer - and it actually works. He puts away that cursed sword and flops down on his bed, rolling onto his stomach and burying his head in the pillows. It’s  _ adorable _ , the kind of offense that makes me want to play with his hair and hold his hand and  _ Merlin _ am I fucked.

“Baz,” he says, haltingly, but doesn’t continue.

“Quit talking to me,” I snap, and Snow lets out a groan of exasperation.

\--

Dinner comes with far more fanfare than is in any way necessary. There’s a dim flash of blue light, and then two plates appear with a clatter in front of the door, startling Snow enough that he almost falls out of bed. 

Then he actually  _ does _ fall out of bed in his haste to get to the food, and I can’t even hide my grin of delight.

Snow devours the food in less than ten minutes, then stares at the empty plate sadly. I’m beyond tempted to offer him my own - I’m not going to eat in front of him, anyway - but that would be ten kilometers off the edge of  _ obvious. _

Instead, I carry my plate over to my desk and place a stasis spell over it. I’ll eat once he goes to bed.

Two hours later, when I stand up and head to the door to go down to the Catacombs to drink, Snow sits up in bed abruptly.

I want to curse. I’d been sure he was asleep.

“What are you doing?” he demands, all self-righteous suspicion.

“Out,” I say abruptly. “Or are you so incompetent that you can’t see even that?”

His scowl deepens. “What the fuck, Baz, you’re not allowed.” Then his eyes widen, and I know he realized where I’m going.  _ Took him long enough, honestly. _

“The spell needs more than one person to work,” I say dryly. He hesitates, then nods, and I wonder if his easy concession was more because he knows as well as I do that I can’t just  _ not _ go, than because I am, of course, correct.

What he doesn’t know, naturally, is that it wouldn’t work anyway. Love spells don’t work if the recipient is already head-over-heels for his idiot roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please social distance and wear masks, I know it's difficult and annoying (Merlin knows I hate being stuck with my family - being misgendered constantly is Not Fun, and I am so sorry to anyone else going though the same thing), but it's really not worth the risk.


	2. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz just wants to sleep, unexpected children, and Doctor Who.
> 
> Brought to you through the power of 70's music and tea.

**Simon**

The look on Baz’s face when I throw open the curtains makes me wonder if he’s about to curse me, Anathema be damned.

Instead, he sits up in bed and throws a pillow at my head. (We discovered early on that the Anathema doesn’t care about that, thank Merlin.)

“Baz! What the hell?” I exclaim, spinning around to face him properly. He has a good arm for a footballer. 

“Close the fucking curtains,” he snarls, and his voice isn’t as bleary as I’d half expected it to be but he’s Baz, so of course he always sounds perfect. He stayed up until almost 3:00 last night, reading some book about compulsion spells - I know because he made enough of a racket getting ready for bed to wake me up. I’m almost certain it was on purpose.

“Fine,” I say, and he narrows his eyes in suspicion, probably because I  _ never  _ give in this easily. I wouldn’t have, actually, but I’ve been thinking about something. “But let’s make a truce.”

He sneers at me, sharp and disbelieving, like I’d said Penny’d failed a class. “What are you on about?”

“I’m not o _ n about _ anything. I said, fine, and if we’re locked up together for the foreseeable future, we might as well try not to kill each other.” Honestly, I just don't want to deal with constant antagonism for a week. And I’m kind of worried he’ll throw me out of the window.

He watches me, carefully, like he’s looking for signs that I’m trying to pull something over on him. (Penny would scoff and say I wouldn’t know how.) “What exactly would that entail?”

I’m surprised, and pleased, but his response still manages to ruffle me. But instead of snapping back or yelling - because I’m trying  _ not _ to fight him - I just throw my hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know, Baz. We’ve already got the Anathema. Can we just, like, try to get along?”

His eyes narrow further, and I’m not quite sure if he’s considering my proposition or the best way to verbally destroy me. Eventually, he rolls his eyes tiredly, resignedly. “And you don’t wake me before noon. No lights, no opening the curtains, no banging around like a numpty.”

I gape. “ _ Noon?  _ Baz, that’s half the day,  _ no. _ What the fuck?” I know, of course, that he hates getting up early - he  _ never _ shows up to breakfast on the weekends, which I honestly can not fathom, doesn’t he get hungry? But noon is a good six hours after I usually wake up, which is  _ insane. _

“Those are the terms.”

“That’s  _ no deal _ ; there’s nothing in it for me,” I say, crossing his arms. It’s just like him to try to pull something like that.

“I’ll let you keep the window open,” he says, drawing it out like it physically pains him.

I stare at him for a long moment. “Yeah, okay, fine. I suppose that’s half the morning I don’t have to deal with you.” And maybe he won’t be awful the rest of the time.

He throws me a dry look, then frowns when the corner of my mouth ticks up. “What?”

“God, Baz, your  _ hair,”  _ I laugh, and his hand jerks up to flatten it down. His hair’s so thick, and while it’s usually slicked back to perfection (except sometimes when he doesn’t use gel and it falls in his eyes and really, that looks a lot better - I wish he’d wear it like that all the time), he didn’t run his fingers through it at all before he sat up, and now it’s sticking up everywhere and falling in his face. It’s kind of adorable, actually, which is not an adjective I  _ ever _ thought I’d describe Baz with. His whole ensemble is, honestly - his clothes are rumpled and his eyes are fuzzy, unfocused - he looks like he’s about to fall over any second. 

Baz runs a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes - which makes me want to smile much more than it should, but it’s so _unlike_ _him_ \- then falls back into his mattress and burrows under the (excessive) blankets, rolling onto his side and away from me. He looks... vulnerable.

I pull the curtains shut, letting darkness encase the room again, and I’m left with the picture of Baz’s sleepy, annoyed face seared into my mind’s eye. I shake my head, physically, in an attempt to scatter the image, then consider the room, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to pass the next six hours. There’s a lamp on my table, at least - maybe I can try one of the supplementary texts Penny’s always leaving around the room in an attempt to get me to read.

\--

I have a lot of experience with being bored.

Over the summers, in the care homes, we’ll go  _ weeks _ without anything interesting happening. It’s annoying, but I’ve learned to deal with it.

This is  _ so much worse _ .

Even in the homes, there’s always  _ something. _ Books or football matches, maybe a card game. If all else fails, I can just watch the other kids. Here, it’s just me and Baz. I’m getting dangerously close to regretting our truce - even yelling would be better. He’s just been writing something for the past two hours, pen scratching away and grating at my insides.

“What time is it?” I groan, even though it’s probably for the fifth time I’ve asked in the last hour.

Baz drops his pen to cast a glance at me over his shoulder. He rolls his eyes - it’s a whole show, the way he tilts his head condescendingly and clenches his jaw, tightens his mouth. Maximum disdain. (It’s impressive, if I’m being honest - does he practice in the mirror? Probably. He fucking would.) 

I’m laying on my back, sideways across my bed so my head and feet hang off the ends, the Elocution book I’ve been working through dangling from one hand.

“Fourteen minutes since you last asked,” Baz answers, glancing at the clock on his desk.

“That’s, what, 3:41?” I say absently, guessing.

“Forty-three, idiot,” he corrects, disdain rolling off his tongue as easy as breathing.

I huff, feeling familiar irritation lighting up my veins. “You could’ve just told me that in the first place, you know.”

Baz doesn’t answer, which isn’t surprising. I’m not quite sure why he’s been humoring me in the first place. Being on a truce doesn’t mean we’re  _ friendly. _

I lift the textbook to my eyes again, trying to focus on the words. I’ve probably done more reading in the past two days than I usually do in two weeks - there’s simply nothing else to do, and reading’s better than  _ nothing. _ I hate being locked up. I need to be on my feet,  _ doing something. _ I feel so restless - jittery, even - like I could run ten miles and not break a sweat. I know I’m not the best at schoolwork, so a lot of people don’t think it, but I hate feeling unproductive. Granted, my idea of  _ productive _ is probably different from Penny’s. Or Baz’s, for that matter, who doesn’t seem to have  _ any _ problem with this arrangement.

I’m almost tempted to try some magic. It would probably help, actually, with the restlessness - as long as it works, that is, because I always get horribly frustrated when my magic doesn’t come out right.

Actually, maybe that would be a bad idea.

“Baz, what time--?” I start again, but he drops a textbook, loudly, before I can finish the question.

“It’s been thirty seconds, Snow, for  _ fucks _ sake-” he snarls, spinning his chair around violently. 

I flinch, involuntarily, as he stands up, and he tosses me an exasperated look that’s a bit misplaced, because nine-out-of-ten times Baz advances on me like that it doesn’t end well.

Instead of heading towards me, though, he turns and strides over to his dresser. I roll onto my stomach and push myself up, resting my chin on my fist to watch, bemused and curious. I can’t see exactly what he’s doing - his bed is in the way - but he’s crouched down, digging in the bottom drawer, lifting out--

A laptop.

They aren’t allowed at Watford, not since last year. Penny keeps a cell, though, and Baz  _ does _ seem like the kind of person who would ignore the rule, so I’m not  _ entirely  _ surprised, but I still have to say--

“You’re not supposed to have that.” 

I can’t  _ not. _ Besides, he’s Baz, I’m hard-wired to want him in trouble.

Baz raises one dark, elegant eyebrow. (Does he  _ pluck  _ them? He  _ must. _ No way that’s natural.) “Yes, and Bunce has a mobile. Your point?”

Ah. So he knows.

(How does he know that? Has he been spying on her? Is this some elaborate plot to get Penny in trouble--?)

“What are you doing?” I say instead, resolutely shutting down the is-Baz-plotting part of my mind.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks, and I gape at him.

“What?”

He repeats the question, sounding impatient, and, maybe, uncomfortable?

“Why are you being nice?” I say, unsure whether I’m suspicious or just flabbergasted. I have no idea what he’s playing at.

Baz narrows his eyes, looking for all the world like I’ve insulted his-- Merlin, I don’t even know. “I’m not being  _ nice _ , Snow. I just want to get through this with both of us alive.”

That sounds a lot like earlier, when I was trying to get him to agree to the truce. 

“ _ Can we just, like, try to get along?” _

Maybe he’s actually trying to compromise.

Either way, I’m not going to turn down the option of entertainment. “Yes, please,  _ thank you _ ,” I say hurriedly, gazing at the computer like it’s come to save me from a dragon. Or goblins. Baz lets out a breath that’s as close to a genuine laugh as I’ve ever heard from him and holds out the laptop.

I grab for it, my fingers brushing his in my haste - I’m half convinced he’s going to tug it back and laugh in my face.

“Password’s ‘Mordelia,’” he says, but it comes out stilted and breathless.

I look up. He’s gazing at his hands, looking oddly shell-shocked. “What?”

“Oh, um… My little sister. That’s her name, Mordelia. The password.”

I stare at him, frowning slightly. I’ve never seen Baz flustered, much less at a loss for words, but he is, and I have no idea what brought it about. 

And since when does he have a  _ sister? _ Whose name he uses as his  _ password? _ It’s bizarre, and clashes dramatically with the image of hi, I’ve built in my head over the past seven years. Baz interacting with children just doesn’t  _ work. _

Before I can say anything, he blinks, hard, and seems to pull himself together. “I’ve got Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime. Do whatever you want,” he says, then turns back to his desk.

Still dazed with the fact that  _ Baz Pitch _ has a  _ little sister _ and he’s being  _ nice _ to me, I open the laptop, practically on autopilot, and pull up Doctor Who.

I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening rewatching the seasons with David Tennant (after at least two minutes of silently debating), and when Baz snaps at me to turn the volume down, I do it without even a complaint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might be up tomorrow, but no promises :P


	3. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giant books, blanket nests, and Bowie. Baz isn't falling apart, why would you even ask that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long - I've been distracted both another project and a bout of writers block. The next chapter should be longer, but I doubt it will take as long.

**Baz**

Snow’s in the middle of a nightmare.

It’s a production I’m well acquainted with. We’ve both been plagued by restless nights at least since we came to Watford, though they’ve certainly increased in both frequency and intensity as the years have gone by.

We never mention it. There’s no way we  _ could _ , not with our combative relationship. I used to snap at him to shut up if he woke up crying, but not recently.

Yet another way Simon Snow has made me into a failure.

I’m not sure what to do now. Everything’s changed. 

Has anything changed? We’re certainly not friendly. I still snap at him; he still growls back. But there’s a persistent light, almost  _ teasing _ air to it that has never come anywhere near our interactions before this week.

That doesn’t mean I can comfort him after a nightmare. It  _ doesn’t. _ I won’t. I’ll play nice, I’ll let him use my laptop, but I won’t pull him into my arms and whisper sweet comforts until he feels better.

Mostly because he’d probably light me on fire.

Crowley, I want to. He’s four, maybe five feet away from me and I can hear him thrashing around, letting out little whimpers. I want to trail my fingers through his hair and tug him close into my chest. I want to chase his demons away with kisses. 

He lets out a shaky whimper and I sit up. There’s a book on the table between our beds - I was reading it before I fell asleep. It’s heavy, a good few inches thick.

I glance over towards Snow. He’s shaking.

One calculated sweep of my arm and the book crashes to the ground with a thump that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet. Simon sits up with a yell and stares around, but I’m already back under my blankets.

I wonder what he’ll do if he realizes what happened.

He probably won’t, the numpty.

\--

These last few days have felt a weird hallucination.

Snow has been… not nice, but a strange sort of aggressively civil. He hasn’t woken me up stomping around at the crack of dawn once since the first morning, which is wonderful, but he keeps just  _ talking  _ at me, like he expects us to have  _ regular conversations _ , and it’s setting me on edge. Every time I send him back my best condescending expression, he sends me back this shocked, horrifyingly offended face, then scowls at me until he gets distracted. Or bored. 

I’m in unfamiliar territory and very much not okay with it.

We had a wonderfully predictable status quo before this all started. Snow would do something idiotic, I would insult him, he would growl back, and that would continue until he either gave up or I pointedly ended the conversation. It wasn’t good, but I knew what was happening and I could control it. 

This fucking truce ruined everything.

I think he’s under the impression that we’re supposed to get along now, Merlin knows why. There’s no reason he should think that - nothing has actually  _ changed _ . He still hates me; I’m still hopelessly in love with him. We’re still going to have to kill each other.

The truce was supposed to keep us from actually murdering each other, not change our relationship. It wasn’t supposed to give me hope.

That’s the problem. It’s giving me a glimpse into what life could be like, and it’s wonderful.

I actually gave Snow my scones at lunch earlier. It was pathetic. He got all excited because they haven’t served scones since this whole situation started, lit up like the fucking ray of light he is, and I practically melted. It only took one glance at my plate on his part before I pushed it over to him.

I am so, so weak.

Then he smiled at me, like he actually enjoyed my company. Like he was happy I was there. Turned his whole fucking sunshine act on me full-force - I’m surprised I didn’t go up in flames on the spot. 

I keep reminding myself that it was just the scones – Snow would probably grin at the Humdrum if it gave him scones, because he’s that much of an idiot – but it’s getting very hard.

“Baz?”

_ Fuck _ , I love it when he says my name like that. It used to roll off his tongue laced with hatred and spite, but the past couple days it’s been different. Not affectionate, never that – but careful. A bit hesitant, sometimes. And occasionally just… there. Like it’s a word he says, like it belongs. Normal. It makes me want to do horrendously soft things.

“Baz,” Snow says again, impatient, and I realize that I didn’t respond. Because I can’t even hear him say my voice without going on a pathetically lovestruck mental tangent.

“What do you want this time?” I snap. “I don’t have any more scones to give you.” Because I get defensive when I’m uncomfortable.

“What time is it?” he asks.

I raise my eyes slowly, ready to throw something at him, because I’ve heard that question far, far too many times in the past three days, and for Crowley’s sake, he has my computer in front of him. It has a clock on it, even he can’t be that much of an idiot—

Oh.

He’s smirking at me (trying to, at least, it looks adorably stupid on him), eyes dancing with amusement.

“Fuck you,” I say, because I’m too caught off guard to think of something smart.

“You looked stressed,” he says, shrugging in that full-body way of his. It looks ridiculous and horrifically undignified.

“And your brilliant plan to remedy that was to exasperate me with your idiotic inquiries?” I drawl, leaning back into my pillows.

“I guess, yeah,” Snow answers, shrugging again. He’s smiling again, Merlin save me. “Did it work?”

“No,” I shoot back immediately. He looks unconvinced.

Some layer of resolve breaks inside me and I pull one arm out of my blanket nest to reach over to the top drawer of the cabinet beside my bed. I’m wrapped up in a particularly soft jumper as well as most of the blankets on my bed, and honestly, I’m in a great mood, in spite Snow’s insistence in remaining a particularly bothersome enigma. I’m actually fairly warm for once, even though the window is open - that’s probably why I decide to entrust yet another concession to Snow’s not-so-capable hands.

“You have a  _ phone?” _ Snow cries, indignation mixed with jealousy and, maybe,  _ admiration _ ? 

No, not possible. I dismiss the thought. (Although I am, in general, a person very well deserving of admiration.) (Just not Snow’s.)

“Yes,” I reply dismissively. “Just as Bunce does.” Because I know he won’t out me if she’s at risk as well. He’s like a golden retriever in the loyalty department.

He frowns - not quite his usual frown, where his eyes squint and his mouth forms a tight, stubborn line - just a disapproving, slightly confused divot between his eyebrows. I want to press my lips to it until he relaxes.

“What are you doing,” he says suspiciously, more a statement than a question. And then - “Hey, do you have Penny’s number? Can I text her?”

I do, actually - we did a project together years ago, and I couldn’t ever bring myself to delete her contact. Because Bunce is a potential way to reach Snow, and I’m weak. 

Still, I ignore the question. “We’re listening to music,” I declare, leaving no room for protest and pulling out my Bluetooth speaker.

It’s something I often do when Snow isn’t in our room. My mother had a huge collection of old vinyl, and that’s where the habit stemmed from - a desire to feel closer to her. Now it’s still that, but also because I genuinely love it. I’m not sure where the compulsion to share it with Snow came from - simple boredom, perhaps - but I don’t really want to stop myself.

I open Spotify and click on the last playlist I listened to.  _ Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide _ floods the room, and I watch Snow out of the corner of my eyes, gauging his reaction. 

“This is nice,” he says hesitantly. 

“Of course it is,” I answer dryly, not looking up.

“I mean, I don’t really listen to music. So. I-I don’t know what-” He’s stuttering again, like he always does when he gets nervous. It’s horrifically adorable.

I raise my gaze and lift a condescending eyebrow at him, because I can’t give him an inch. (I’ve already given far too many.) “Use your words, Snow.” 

He huffs in annoyance, crinkling his nose at me. “If you let me text Pen, I’ll probably bother you less,” he says imploringly. I think he’s trying to negotiate, and it’s surprisingly effective - but more because he’s looking up at me through his stumpy blonde eyelashes than any degree of actual competence.

I’m probably going to concede, because it turns out that - surprise! - Snow being even remotely cordial in my direction turns me as pliant as the butter he spreads on his sour cherry scones. But I refuse to throw my reputation to the wind just yet. “No.”

He’s not going to give in - that much I know.

“C’mon, Baz? I’ll…” he hesitates, looking around. I’m honestly curious as to what he comes up with. “I won’t practice with my sword in here until after the Christmas holidays?”

That’s a laughable offering. He never manages anyway - I always yell at him before he gets started. Still, I pull on a contemplative expression, because  _ I _ can negotiate. 

He looks hopeful, like a puppy offered a treat. “Please, Baz?” 

And the tone of his voice - that’s it, I’m  _ done _ , I’m going to turn to ash here and now. “ _ Fine _ ,” I grind out, tossing him the phone. He fumbles it, like I had expected, but it just falls onto his bed - he grabs it eagerly, and starts tapping at the screen, presumably pulling up Bunce’s contact. 

“How do you even have Penny’s number?” he says suddenly, looking at me suspiciously.

I just smirk at Snow, not answering even in the face of the revived irritation that creeps over his face. Hopefully the refusal to offer information will do  _ something _ to salvage my crumbling reputation.


	4. Day 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, angst happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I am SO SORRY this took absolutely forever. School just started back up and the world is going up in flames around me, so I have not had the time or energy to write. Things are slowing down now, though, so the next chapter should be up sometime this week.  
> I'm not entirely happy with how the second half of this turned out, but I simply don't have the motivation to fix it, so oh well.

**Simon**

It’s only been three days since the quarantine started and I’m going  _ crazy. _ I think Baz is sick of it too - he’s been snapping at me all day, almost as bad as he was before our truce. He’s curled up in his bed now with a book, but he isn’t actually reading; I haven’t seen him turn a page in about a half hour.

And Baz is the type of person who generally doesn’t need to be out doing  _ stuff. _ He’s like Penny, I think - content to sit in the library and read books. Which I will  _ never _ understand. I want to go outside and run across the lawn and maybe kick a football around. Or practice sparring with my sword - I’m beginning to regret that part of our truce.

I turn to face Baz, warily. He’s glaring daggers at his book, like it personally offended him. (Maybe it did, he’s not hard to offend.) He didn’t give me his computer when he woke up, like yesterday, and I’m bored out of my mind, but  _ asking _ doesn’t seem like a good idea, somehow.

He really does look like he’s about to murder someone. I should leave him alone. There’s a History of Magick essay due a week after the quarantine is due to lift, maybe I could start it -

I sigh, probably louder than necessary, but even the  _ thought _ of writing makes me want to drive my fist through the wall. I’m way too bored to do something  _ more _ dull.

“Can I use your computer?” I toss across the room before I can rethink it.

He doesn’t even respond, which is annoying. And very Baz, of course.

“ _ Can _ I?” I prompt, impatiently, because he’s been getting on my nerves all day and I’m sick of whatever mood he’s worked himself into.

Baz flicks his eyes up to meet mine. He’s scowling at me - not the sneer he gives when I’m being an idiot and he’s about to make fun of me; the dark, dangerous glare saves for when he’s actually  _ angry _ . I swallow. Maybe this was a bad plan.

Then he just looks down at his book and turns away from me, so I’m left glaring at his back, relief that he didn’t curse me battling with my temper flaring at how  _ ridiculously _ impossible he’s being.

**Baz**

I can’t do this today. I  _ can’t. _

He can take my computer if he wants - I’m not sure why he doesn’t, actually. Simon’s not usually anywhere near that considerate when it comes to manners. Maybe he’s worried I’ll yell at him. Maybe he’s trying to be nice, for the truce.

It’s August 12. 

Twelve years since my mother was murdered. Twelve years since the vampires ripped my life to shreds.

I want to go sit in the catacombs (and cry myself to sleep, most likely, because I’m ever so very okay), but I can’t, I’m stuck here with Snow trying to pretend it’s just a normal day because some idiot third year went and fucked everything up for everyone at Watford.

When I woke up this morning, I wondered if he would realize. He didn’t, I’m certain, and I don’t know why I even considered it--what, because we’re on a truce he’s suddenly going to know the date the vampires came, and realize it’s today? 

I really can be pathetic sometimes.

**Simon**

“Baz, come on, don’t be an asshole,” I growl.

I can feel my magic rising to the surface. He really shouldn’t be able to piss me off so easily, but my temper’s been on a short leash all day and he’s Baz, anyway; he’s always been able to get to me.

Baz snaps his book down and whirls around, lip pulled up into a sneer. “Just fucking use it, would you? Or are you so incapable of basic human function that you need me to turn it on for you?” he snarls.

My face flares red with anger. “I was being polite, fucking try it some time.”

“Most appreciated,” he drawls, derisive sarcasm practically dripping from the words. “Fine. Use my laptop if you must; Merlin knows you’re not competent enough to entertain yourself in a  _ civilized  _ manner.”

I want to scream at the pure  _ unfairness. _ It’s his bloody laptop, for one, so clearly if I’m  _ uncivilized  _ (can’t he talk like a normal fucking person for five minutes; he sounds like he spends all his time wandering through ancient libraries and having tea with the Queen - hell, maybe he  _ does _ ), so is he. My magic is about to boil over. “I know you’re a vampire, Baz, but I thought you’d stop being an actual fucking  _ monster _ for a week,” I growl, voice rising.

I expect him to yell back. Maybe threaten to kill me once we’re released, or just say I can’t watch movies anymore. That’s the dance we do, and I’ve had every step memorized for years. 

Instead, he flinches like I’d hit him, and I watch as his face visibly shuts down into an impenetrable, icy wall.

“Fuck you,” he hisses. It’s quiet and furious and something that I would call  _ hurt  _ if he was anyone else. Baz turns away from me again and pulls his blanket up over his shoulders, and I’m left staring at him, perplexed. 

**Baz**

I’m going to start fucking crying with Simon awake and in the room and there’s no way out.

I wish he would just stake me, here and now. 

**Simon**

I don’t think Baz has ever just backed down from an argument like this, and it’s seriously disconcerting. 

(What’s even more disconcerting is that I’m not flooded with relief or triumph at finally winning, but something that feels more like… worry?)

Baz is still and tense, unmoving as stone. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do here. Should I snap back at him? Turn away? Just take his laptop and watch a movie?

I can’t tear my eyes away from Baz. The blanket he has around him, a fluffy grey thing that looks soft and warm, melts the hard lines of his shoulders and the tense, angry way he usually holds himself.

And then...

His shoulders are shaking.

It takes me far too long to make the connection, maybe because the idea is so outlandish and bizarre, but then I’m slammed roughly back to fifth year, hard enough to bruise, and it hits me that Baz, Baz who is always pulled so tight and together and perfect that I wonder how he doesn’t crack, Baz is  _ crying. _

I’m so far out of my depth that I wonder, for a moment, if this is even real. Maybe the whole quarantine situation is some bizarre hallucination that the Humdrum created to finally destroy me.

Penny would say that’s crazy, though, so I ignore the thought.

I don’t have any idea what to do here, so I just let my instincts guide me. I’m good at that--Penny says it’s remarkable how often things go well for me when I have no clue what’s going on, which is great, because I end up in  _ far _ too many of those situations.

I push myself up and cross the room to Baz’s bed. One, two, three, four simple steps, and then I’m close enough to touch him. And then I do. One hand on his shoulder in what’s the first non-aggressive touch we’ve shared since the Crucible.

Baz’s skin is cold enough that I can feel warmth leach out of my hand even through his shirt, and I realize that maybe he hasn’t just been complaining about the window to be contrary.

He goes still, frozen motionless under my hand, not even breathing. I wonder for a second if this was the wrong move.  _ Probably _ . He’s going to drag me out to the stairs so he can punch me in the face.

“Baz?” I try, voice quiet and hesitant. It feels weird. “I-I’m sorry.” Because I am. I’m not sure what exactly I said to hurt him this much, but the fact that I  _ did  _ makes me feel strangely sick.

There’s a moment of silence pulled taut enough I’m surprised the air doesn't snap from it, and then he turns his head sixty degrees to the right, and I’m caught in his gaze.

Baz’s eyes are open and vulnerable, red with tears that have whispered their way down his face and cling to his chin; the impenetrable shield he usually has up and armed is just  _ gone, _ replaced with pain and bewilderment. He swallows, then--

“It’s the twelfth of August. That’s… when my mother died.” It comes out low and defeated, and my eyes widen. He’s still meeting my gaze, looking detachedly curious to see my reaction.

Everything clicks into place, and I feel horribly guilty, even though this  _ is _ Baz, and he’s done so much worse than this to me. I bite my lip, then slide in bed next to him.

“Simon, what the fuck-” Baz starts, but I ignore him determinedly and wrap an arm around his shoulders, like I would Penny. “What are you  _ doing?”  _ he hisses, struggling to get away, like an angry cat that doesn’t want to be held.

“Calm down,” I say, unfamiliar warmth that doesn’t even  _ remotely _ fit the situation blossoming in my chest.

“I--your cross,” he manages, and I reach down to pull it over my head and toss it across the room. Baz is still tense and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, but he doesn’t protest when I tug him in against my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “You’re not a monster, Baz.”

He doesn’t answer, but after several long, loaded moments, he relaxes minutely and sinks into my chest.

**Baz**

I don’t have the energy to protest. I don’t  _ want  _ to.

**Simon**

After what could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes, Baz turns to press his face into my shoulder. He’s curled up into me like a cat, and I can feel his tears soaking into the fabric of my shirt, so I carefully raise my arms to hold him, because I can’t imagine he would protest now.

It lasts for an eternity frozen in time, but finally his shoulders stop shaking and he pulls back to sit up properly, refusing to meet my gaze. 

“Snow,” he starts, stilted, but I frown and cut him off.

“Don’t do that, Baz.”  _ Don’t pull away and pretend this never happened. _ It’s what he wants; I can see it in the tension in his shoulders.

_ I don’t want to go back to being enemies. _

“Do what?” he asks, voice hard. 

I reach up and wipe a tear from his cheekbone with a knuckle, and his eyes dart up to meet mine, wide with shock. I smile up at him, as reassuring as I can make it. 

(I might be blushing - my face feels weirdly hot. Oh, well.)

“Let’s watch a movie, yeah?” I say, reaching for the laptop on the table between the desks. He doesn’t reply, but I pull up Netflix and click something random off his recommended list. We’re still touching, so I lean into him (a little in the hopes of comfort, a little because I want to), and he doesn’t push me away.  
  
  



	5. Day 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MUCH FLUFF. I feel no regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I expected (ha, imagine that lmao) because I ended up writing almost 3k. And mostly at 3am, so... be warned.

**Baz**

I wake to echoing memories of Snow pulling me into his side and leaning his head on my shoulder, which isn’t even remotely unusual. I’ve been having that dream practically since I met him, even if I didn’t realize what it meant for a while.

The shock comes several seconds later, and I sit bolt upright when I realize that the echoes were not, in fact, from a dream.

My eyes lock on Snow immediately. He’s watching me, a pathetic,  _ adorable  _ attempt at a raised eyebrow marking his expression.

“Everything good?” he asks, and I realize I’m staring. “You’re not usually this awake first thing.”

“Everything is fine, Snow,” I drawl, and I’m proud of how perfectly disdainful it comes out. I’m nothing if not in control.

(Except for yesterday, apparently, but I’m forcefully not thinking about  _ that  _ particular earthquake.)

I sink back into my bed and roll onto my side, pulling the blankets up to my shoulders. I should  _ never  _ have conceded to keep the window open--the air is freezing on my face and the back of my neck, and even the five blankets I have piled up on top of myself aren’t enough to keep out the chill.

Snow was a campfire yesterday, radiating heat and sharing it willingly with me. The air feels even colder now, knowing what I’m missing.

I can still feel the ghost of his arm around me if I try hard enough.

_ Enough. _ Wishing has never gotten me anywhere. I sit up, smoothing my hair out as much as I can without a mirror or gel, and turn to face Snow.

He’s tapping away at my phone, because he’s an  _ idiot. _

“Snow,” I say sharply, and he looks up, the picture of bewildered innocence. One of his curls is sticking waywardly out to the side and it makes me want to guide it back into place and kiss him on the tip of his nose, which is, frankly, horrifying.

“Yeah, Baz?” and  _ Merlin, _ there’s not a hint of antagonism in it. I could just roll my eyes and turn away, but apparently I’m physically capable of doing that, so:

“ _ What _ are you doing on my phone?” I ask, and there’s not quite as much danger laced in as there could be, which makes me both irrationally angry and a bit relieved.

He tries to raise an eyebrow, which is a show. “You said I could use it to text Penny. She says, hi, by the way, and that she’s reading a book she thinks you might like.”

I stride over and grab the phone out of his hand. (I’ll ask Bunce about the book later.)

“What the  _ fuck _ , Baz,” Snow groans, aggravated and (maybe? No, never) a little affectionate.

“You are not to use my phone without permission, Snow. Have a little decorum.”

“De _ cor _ um _ , _ ” Snow mocks with a cheeky grin, dragging out the  _ o. _ “Fine, then,  _ may I _ use your phone to text Penny?”

“No,” I shoot back. “You’ve spent your chance. Maybe later, if you’re not too much of an annoyance.”

Snow rolls his eyes and sinks back into his chair, so I turn away to go take a shower. When I get back, hair slicked to perfection and clad in a warm jumper (because sure, it’s August, but somehow I’m still fucking  _ freezing _ ), Snow is sprawled across his bed with a plate full of scones. 

“Do you want to watch  _ Sherlock  _ with me?” he asks, and I realize he’s been staring at my laptop, wistfully. Which reminds me of our argument yesterday.

I should say no. Anything else would be a fucking horrible idea, and I pride myself on my self-control.

If only he weren’t  _ looking at me  _ like that. I want to close my eyes so I can’t see his expression. Hopeful, crooked grin. Like he’s looking at the sun. 

(I’m not the sun,  _ he  _ is.)

I don’t know when I became something Snow could smile at. He’s like a dog, endlessly trusting, endlessly forgiving once he latches on to someone. 

When did he stop hating me?

“Fine,” I manage. It comes out a snarl, but somehow that just makes Snow look amused, which is fucking beautiful on him.

“Come here, then,” Snow says, which is all I’ve ever wanted to hear from him.

“I’m not sitting on your bed, Snow.”

He scowls. “Merlin’s sake, Baz, do you want to sit on the floor? Quit being difficult.”

“We can sit on  _ my  _ bed,” I snap, because he has a point and I’m stubborn enough to refuse to admit that. (Also, because my blankets smelled like him last night and I’m fucking desperate.)

He looks startled, which is reasonable, but then shrugs and crosses the chasm between our beds in three simple steps. 

I want to cry at how easy he made it look.

Snow sits on the mattress and grabs my laptop, presumably opening Netflix, but I’m still hesitating. This really is a  _ terrible  _ idea. We’re enemies. Enemies don’t watch TV shows on each other’s bed.

“Hurry up,” Snow says, and it kills me.

“We’re not  _ friends, _ Snow,” and I’d expected the words to come out in an explosion, but they’re a whisper.

His eyes widen, looking at me like I’ve disarmed him. Then his gaze falls, and I watch as a stormcloud drifts across his features. 

“What if we were,” Snow says quietly. Somehow, it’s not a question.

“We’re going to have to kill each other. You  _ know  _ that.”  _ Don’t make this worse than it has to be. _

I don’t know why he’s protesting. He hates me, he  _ has _ to, because otherwise all these years of agony have been for nothing.

“What if we just… don’t?”

I gape at him for a second, then close my mouth sharply. “It doesn’t work like that.” I’m grasping at strings because if I let go, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from falling off the edge.

“Why not?” Snow says sharply, jaw hardening. “I’m not going to fight you. You don’t have to fight me if you don’t want to. My battle is with the Humdrum, not the Families, and I know you want the Humdrum gone, too. Why can’t we just not kill each other?”

_ “I’m not going to fight you.” _ The words rattle around in my head, the noise muffling all the responses I want to make.

Instead, I sit down on the bed next to him, sliding my legs under the blanket. There should be enough room on the bed for us to sit next to each other with a good few inches between us, but he’s sitting far enough to the center that our shoulders and arms and thighs press together, only separated by the fabric of my blanket and our clothes.

Then Simon Snow fucking goes and lays his head on my shoulder.

I’m going to scream.

I’m going to--

“See? This isn’t so bad,” he says distractedly, pressing  _ play  _ on the episode.

Of course, of  _ course _ he’s this tactile. I’m an idiot. I’ve seen him with Bunce. And now he’s gone and decided we’re friends, so he’s going to do the same with me. I should never have agreed to that truce. 

I don’t know whether I want to cry from despair or happiness.

His hair is brushing my neck. I’m going to  _ scream. _

I grab a bag of Walkers from my bedside table and magic the lights out to give myself something to do. The darkness somehow makes the situation both better and worse--being able to see him less is helpful (and he can’t see my fangs pop from the crisps), but sitting with--practically  _ cuddling _ with Simon in the dark is a reappearing theme from both my dreams and nightmares.

“Want a scone?” Simon offers.

“No.”

“Can I have a crisp?” he persists, and I set the bag on the table, away from him.

“Arsehole,” he mutters, which makes the corners of my mouth turn up.

Five minutes later, he snakes an arm around my waist.

“Snow?” I bite out. I’d almost gotten used to his presence beside me, his head on my shoulder, but this is too much.

“You called me Simon yesterday,” he says, pulling back, and I realize he’d managed to get a crisp out of my bag.  _ That’s _ what the arm was about, which is a bit disappointing, but also a remarkably well thought out plot, for him.

“You’re an idiot, Snow. And no, I most certainly did not.”

“Uh, yeah you did,” he retorts. I think he’s grinning, but I can’t see to make sure.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap.

“Why won’t you call me Simon?” he asks.

_ Because I can’t let myself slip any further than I already have.  _ “Because Snow is your name.”

“I  _ like  _ Simon, though.”

This is becoming physically painful. “Thank Merlin I don’t exist to please you, then,” I retort.  _ I wish I did. _ “Now pay attention to the show.” Sherlock is being his usual, pragmatically detached self to John, who is becoming increasingly infuriated. There’s a metaphor here but it doesn’t  _ quite _ fit.

“Fuck you,” Simon mutters, reaching around me to grab another crisp.

We spend the entire day pretty much like that, switching to  _ Star Wars _ around dinner, because Simon is weirdly obsessed with the movies. He yawns his way through  _ Return of the Jedi, _ listing heavily against me, so when the end credits roll I shut my laptop and set it carefully on the table.

“That was a good movie,” Simon mutters, instead of leaving immediately like I’d expected. He’s becoming disturbingly unpredictable. “Han Solo’s pretty great.”

“I suppose,” I comment.  _ Why isn’t he moving? _

“At the home I was in before the Mage came to get me, they used to let the older kids watch  _ Star Wars. _ I wasn’t old enough before I left, but I’d sometimes sneak in and watch anyways. No one really cared,” he admitted, “but it was nice, I suppose. I used to want to be Han; to fly away on a spaceship and fight the Empire.”

I can picture that all too well, little ten-year-old Simon gaping at the spaceships and the Rebel fighters and deciding he wanted to be just like them. Great snakes, I’m falling in love with him all over again. 

My lips tug up into a smile involuntarily. “Well, you got to run off to magic school and fight the Humdrum.”

He lets out a quiet breath of muted laughter. “It wasn’t quite as fun as I’d imagined.”

“No?”

“More lonely.”

“You’ve got Bunce, and Wellbelove,” I say, brow furrowed. (I’m not sure what exactly is happening with him and Wellbelove right now, but they’ll be back to fairy-tale land soon.)

“No, I don’t,” he retorts quickly, sharp, and I raise an eyebrow even though I know he can’t see me well enough in the darkness. With the computer light turned off, the stars and moon are the only source of light in the room. I can see Simon fairly well, what with my vampire senses and how close we are, but I doubt the same is true for him. “Agatha and I are… not happening. That’s over.”

“What?” I ask, startled. He’s always been so relentlessly optimistic that he and Agatha would get back together no matter how many times they’ve split up - no matter how much even  _ Bunce  _ clearly thought their relationship wasn’t working.

“We just… we called it quits, for real. She doesn’t want to get pulled into my destiny, I guess. Said she was tired of constantly worrying about the Humdrum.”

I feel a surge of bright fury flare in my chest. “That’s not her call to make.”  _ How dare she? _ “It’s not like you  _ chose _ to be targeted, and regardless, the Humdrum is  _ everyone’s _ problem.”

“That’s a lot like what Penny said,” Simon mused. “I can see why she would want out, though. It’s not like  _ I _ like this whole destiny thing.”

“Really?” I ask, a bit taken aback. Somehow, I’ve always imagined that Simon would have jumped at the chance to save the World of Mages.

I guess it’s not that unbelievable that he wouldn’t. That puts a lot of things in a new perspective, though.

“I mean, I don’t have a choice. I don’t really think about it,” he says.

I don’t respond. It’s all too easy to imagine Simon  _ just not thinking _ about something as consuming as the Humdrum. I never  _ stop _ thinking - sometimes I’d give anything to be able to shut off my brain like he seems to be able to.

“You’ve still got Bunce, though,” I push. Simon shrugs, muscles flexing against my upper arm. 

_He’s so_ _warm._

“It’s not Penny’s problem, though. Not like it’s mine. She just got stuck dealing with it because she’s my friend, but fighting the Humdrum is my whole life.”

It’s one of the most coherent, unwavering statements I’ve ever heard from him, which makes me wonder how much time he’s spent thinking about it. I lean into him a little, because he seems to like the contact. (And because I want to, always.)

“So, you have a sister?” he says, finally, and I can’t say I’m overly disappointed at the subject change, as much as talking about my family with  _ Simon Snow _ throws me off.

“Three, actually,” I say, and tell him. Then he tells me about how he always wondered what having siblings would be like, and how he used to imagine his biological parents might be like, and I tell him what little I remember about my mother. It’s the most I’ve ever said about her - Dev and Niall and I do not, as a rule, discuss matters that sensitive. Or, at least,  _ I _ don’t.

“She would have been proud of you, you know,” Simon murmurs, and I freeze.

“You couldn’t possibly know that,” I mutter, then shiver. The temperature has dropped since I put the computer up. (Why is he still here? Has he forgotten where we are? Probably.)

“Cold?” Simon asks, tugging at the edge of the blanket draped over my legs. He slips under it, and suddenly his arm is around my waist and he’s pulling me down into the warmth and--

We’re both under the blanket, laying down, faces maybe fifteen centimeters apart, sharing the same air.

I am drastically out of my depth and revelling in it unabashedly.

Simon reaches up and pulls the blanket tighter around my shoulders, fingers whispering across the skin of my neck. I’m floating.

“You’re brilliant, Baz, of course she would be.”

I’m dreaming, I have to be. There is no world in which Simon Snow would ever, ever look at me  _ that _ fondly and let his fingers trail through the strands of hair that frame my face. I slip an arm around his waist and pull him a little closer - because if I’m dreaming, there’s no reason not to - and his lips tug up a little in the corners. His chest is touching mine, now, and he’s so, so warm.

I never want to leave this moment, whatever it is.

A few hairs fall into my face and Simon tucks them behind my ear. “Your hair looks better loose, like this,” he comments, and I instantly decide to never, ever slick it back again.

I have never been this far out of my comfort zone, but there is no way I’m protesting. My senses are even more super-charged than normal; I feel like I’ve been struck with a bolt of electricity.

I desperately need to relax before Simon starts getting suspicious. Merlin, how does he not know how gone I am for him?

“I’m not sure I should trust your taste,” I tell him. The response isn’t even  _ that _ late. “What with this mess on your head.” His curls are splayed out on the bed, falling into his eyes, and I reach up to tug at one. 

“I-” he starts, crinkling his nose, then breaks off into a wide yawn. It shouldn’t be cute, but it is. “Sleep now, Baz, I’m tired,” he murmurs, which reminds me of why we stopped watching movies in the first place.

(It’s only midnight, but Simon is decidedly not a night person. I fall asleep at 2am on a  _ good  _ night.)

I still half-expect him to roll out of my bed and cross the room to his, but instead he just closes his eyes and lets his hand slip to loosely encircle my forearm.

He’s not leaving.

“Goodnight, Snow,” I whisper belatedly, but he doesn’t respond; he’s already asleep.


	6. Day 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon tries to flirt. Simon does not know how to flirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? Did I actually update?? I'm choosing to blame my procrastination on the fact that this chapter is about 4x as long as the others, not my inability to meet deadlines I set.  
> This is the last major chapter, and it is 4,500 words of pretty much pure fluff. I'll get the epilogue up in the next few days, probably.

**Simon**

I wake up to Baz’s face inches from mine and immediately realize I want to kiss him.

Well, then.

I stopped hating Baz when he cried into my shoulder. Or maybe it was before that, or maybe I never did. But that was when I realized.

This is a bit different.

His usually-perfect hair is mussed into a cloud, sticking up everywhere and falling into his eyes - I’d trail my fingers through it right this instant if I didn’t think he would immediately wake up and light me on fire.

Somehow, this revelation doesn’t surprise me. It feels more like a puzzle piece slotting into place, a stream finally running crystal-clear. I think I’ve been falling for Baz for a long time. Spending a few days close to him, antagonism pushed to the side, just brought everything to the surface.

Baz looks so soft, so vulnerable, asleep - skin creased against the pillow, mouth slightly parted (mouthbreather, ha). No one looks attractive when they’re sleeping, but I’m so used to Baz being  _ so fucking flawless  _ that this somehow makes me want him even more.

There's the fact that he’s a boy. I want to kiss a  _ boy _ . That’s… something I can think about later. With advice from Penny, probably. Actually, I’ll go ahead and put it on my  _ Things Not To Think About _ list.

I think maybe… maybe Baz feels the same way. I don’t know. The idea is insane. But last night, when I tucked his hair behind his ear, the way he was smiling up at me, shy and nervous and soft like nothing I’ve ever seen from him before…

I really should get up before Baz opens his eyes to find me staring at him.

We didn’t shift much during the night, which is surprising, because I’m usually a restless sleeper. My hand is loosely encircling Baz’s wrist; one of my legs is thrown over his. His hand is still resting on my hip, fingertips just brushing the skin between my t-shirt and shorts.

I  _ definitely  _ should pull away before he wakes up and shoves me off himself.

He doesn’t usually get up until noon, though - which is  _ insane - _ so I should have several hours.  _ I’ll get up when breakfast is delivered.  _

That decided, I relax back into the mattress, curling closer to Baz, carefully sliding one arm around his waist and tucking my head into his chest. He doesn’t move, thank Crowley. Usually, when I wake up, I’m too hot and uncomfortable to stay in bed, but Baz’s skin is cool against mine. I’m comfortable enough to close my eyes and relax, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

I open my eyes again to beams of sunlight striping the room, bright enough to hurt. The smell of eggs and toast drifts across the room, further evidence that  _ a few minutes _ turned into a lot more than I’d expected. Thank Crowley Baz is still asleep beside me ( _ curled around me) _ , slow breaths whispering through the air.

I sit up carefully, painfully conscious of how every movement jostles the bed. I’m not good at being careful - hell, I tripped over my desk chair last night and almost went headfirst into the wall - but somehow, I manage to detangle myself from Baz without waking him up. I’m not sure what would’ve happened if he’d woken up. Last night, he was warm and hesitant in a way I’d never imagined from him - it was a bit disconcerting, actually - but I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to bite my head off over waking him up early.

Not to mention the whole  _ tangled up around each other _ thing. I’d rather have a bit of time to think that through myself before throwing  _ Baz _ , who is definitely not known for reacting in any approximation of reasonable to just about  _ anything _ , into the equation.

I can’t believe I have…  _ feelings  _ for Baz. He’s supposed to be my  _ enemy. _ My evil, vampire, arsehole, perfect,  _ beautiful  _ enemy.

...Right.

I’m not sure exactly what it is. Attraction? (Definitely. Completely. Crowley, no one has the right to be that beautiful, what the fuck.) 

Infatuation? Maybe, but somehow I feel like this has been going on for a while. (I’m trying not to think about fifth year too much.) (Penny is going to laugh so hard.)

Love?

No. Not yet, at least. But… looking at Baz, asleep and peaceful, the scheming, brilliant arsehole who needles me until I snap, who does anything he puts his mind to… 

I think I could, eventually.

I’d like to kiss him, at least. Date him, maybe, definitely. Of course, I’d need him to want me back, which is a bit of an issue.

Even if he decided not to kill me over the course of this week, and essentially said, in his infuriating way, that he was okay with us being friends, that definitely doesn’t mean he wants anything more.

Regardless of how softly he looked at me.

I need to stop thinking about this or my magic is going to start acting up. I’d text Penny, but that would be beyond weird, on Baz’s phone. There  _ are _ scones though, and scones are always a wonderful distraction, so I head over to the plates of breakfast, set Baz’s on his desk, and tuck in to mine. 

The scones are gone far too quickly and I wish, not for the first time, that we still had access to the buffet breakfast like usual. Today is a four-scone day, at the very least. The two the kitchens sent are not nearly enough for the number of life-changing revelations I’ve had this morning.

Maybe Baz’ll give me his when he wakes up. 

\--

“What are you doing?”

I flinch, flailing to grab the blanket beneath me and narrowly managing to not fall off the bed. Baz’s voice was a bit bleary, but still managed to cut through the silence enough to startle me back to the present.

“Er…. Reading about…” I scroll to the top of the Wikipedia article. “Peaches?”

Baz raises a perfectly arched, skeptical eyebrow. I’m not surprised. I don't know how I got here either. I think he’s deciding the best way to insult me. “I never expect anything particularly  _ intelligent  _ from you, Snow, but I must admit this is a new low.”

I scowl at him, but I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from turning up. I’m still not used to seeing the still half-asleep side of Baz. He’s doing his best to be his usual, flawlessly put-together self, but it just doesn’t work when his hair is messy and his eyes keep falling shut.

Baz slides out of bed and heads to the bathroom, leaving me to consider my options.  _ What are you supposed to do when you fall for your sworn enemy?  _

How are you supposed to act when your sworn enemy somehow ends up your friend? 

That’s what we are now. No matter how much Baz protests, we definitely don’t hate each other anymore ( _ did we ever really _ ), and he’s actually being a lot nicer to me than he generally is to the rest of the school. Not that that is saying much, but a centimeter from Baz is a kilometer from anyone else. 

I’m still staring at the wall like absentmindedly, thinking about last night, when Baz comes out of the bathroom. And he has his hair loose.

I raise my eyebrows at him (because I  _ can _ do that, it’s the fancy one-eyebrow thing Baz does that’s beyond me), because that’s something he hasn’t done in years… and I told him last night I liked his hair like that.

Baz just shoots me an unimpressed look before turning to grab his phone from the desk. “Bunce texted you,” he notes. I make grabby hands for the phone, but the  _ arsehole  _ just sets it back down with a smirk.

“What the fuck, Baz,” I complain, but I’m already halfway across the room to get it myself, because apparently I’ve finally realized it’s easier to just not expect Baz to be a reasonable human being. (Vampire. Whatever. Does it really matter? He’s just a boy, in the end.)

I open the text:  **_have you killed each other yet?_ **

I start typing  _ no, penny _ , then hesitate and tap the camera. “Baz, c’mere.”

“What?” he says, turning, and I throw an arm around his shoulder to bring him into the frame, then click the shutter and send the image before Baz gets a chance to grab the phone back from me. It’s a decent picture - I’m grinning at the camera, Baz is glaring at me and looking angelic as usual, our faces are close together. Maybe I can get it from Penny later. Would that be too weird?

**_not quite_** , I text, because Baz _is_ looking at me like he’s considering it.

“Give me that,” he demands. His cheeks are a bit pink - at least, compared to his usual, which doesn’t say much.

I roll my eyes and hold the phone. Baz grabs at it, fingers brushing mine, and I freeze for a second, letting the touch linger.

Baz narrows his eyes at me slightly, giving me that puzzled look he does that makes me feel like a cat doing something amusingly strange. I pull back, looking away in embarrassment, because I had  _ not  _ meant to do that. Since when could Baz make me feel so wrong-footed?

Scratch that, he’s always been able to make me feel like an idiot. I just usually don’t end up  _ blushing _ .

…It wasn’t that  _ bad _ of a feeling, though.  _ Huh. _

“Want to watch a movie?” I ask aloud, successfully tearing myself out of my thoughts. Baz gives me another strange look, but nods, moving over to his bed and pulling out his computer. I follow him, hover for a second, and then slide over next to him. Like usual, he tenses for a moment, then relaxes, so I take that as a cue to curl one arm around his stomach and tuck my head into the hollow of his neck.

“Simon--” Baz says, stranged, and I reach up to flick him on the cheek. His eyes are wide.

“Don’t be difficult,” I tell him. “Watch the movie.” 

I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart is racing. I can feel  _ his, _ that’s for certain. It’s beating, rapid, just under my jaw.

We stay like that for a while, long enough for Baz to relax, but then my arm starts cramping and I have to pull back to just sitting next to him, head on his shoulder. It’s annoying, but Baz’s hair is brushing my cheek and he hasn’t protested, so that’s still a win in my book. 

I’m still not sure if he has any sort of feelings for me. He could just be enjoying the touching in a platonic, friend way.

This would be a lot easier if he could  _ blush _ properly. Or if I could talk to Penny.

I  _ could  _ just ask him, but that is such a bad idea even  _ I  _ can see it. I don’t want to mess up this weird, shaky friendship we have going on. We haven’t had a proper fight in days, and Baz is letting me curl up next to him. That’s enough progress for me to be pretty close to satisfied. Plus, imagine still having to  _ live _ with Baz if he rejected me. That would be plain horrific.

Somehow I’m not sure if I can just let it go, though. I’ve never been good at leaving well enough alone.

So… I’ll try something. Push the boundaries a little. Nothing drastic, but enough to see how Baz reacts.

Lunch chooses that moment to show up, though, which puts my plotting on hold. 

“Well,” Baz declares, shutting his laptop. “I’m going to read a book, so shove off.” He climbs out of the bed and picks up his plate, leaving me to frown after him. Is that his way of telling me I’m being ridiculously obvious and that he’s not interested? If so, why did he let me cuddle with him for an hour? Baz never does anything he doesn’t want to.

I decide not to worry about it. Baz loves to be contrary and, if I’m being honest, that’s somehow one of my favorite things about him. Instead, I cross the room and start eating at my desk. (I can’t wait for tomorrow afternoon - I’ll finally be able to eat as much of whatever I want to again.)

Baz mirrors me, propping a thick, old book up against two  _ more _ books to read while he eats. I don’t understand how he and Penny don’t get bored staring at paper all day, honestly.

Just like the past week, Baz hardly eats - by the time I’m completely done, he’s only taken a few, tiny bites. Suddenly resolute, I clench my jaw and stride across the room to stand behind him. 

“What are you doing?” Baz askes, his expression hovering somewhere between bemused and irritated.

“You should eat your food,” I blurt out.  _ Oh, great line. What now? What do people do when they’re flirting? _

“I  _ was  _ eating, before you decided to come over and bother me,” he says, and that’s definitely leaning more into irritated territory.

“Sorry,” I say distractedly. Baz looks suspicious, which is fair, because I’m not one for apologizing. 

_ Do something!  _ a voice tells me, and I don’t know what that means but I’ve been staring at Baz’s hair all morning -  _ because it’s down and loose and he did that because you said it looked good  _ \- so I reach up and tuck the few strands of hair that are falling in his eyes behind his ear, then let my fingers trail through it like I did last night. 

Baz’s eyes widen, and I feel my face flush, and oh  _ fuck  _ this is  _ awkward  _ I did  _ not think this through fuuuuck, I’m blushing, why why why did I think this was a good idea quick retreat retreat--  _ I pull my hand away and stumble backwards to my desk, resolutely not meeting Baz’s eyes. 

This is a lot harder when I’m not half asleep and not thinking about anything.

**Baz**

I don’t have a fucking clue what is going on with Simon, and I’m trying very, very hard not to think about it.

_ Was that--  _

_ No.  _

_ Does he-- _

_ He  _ can’t.

**Simon**

When I look up again, Baz is eyeing me warily. He catches my gaze and then looks down, turning resolutely back to his book. 

I decide to give it a half hour, which I spend flipping aimlessly over my History of Magick notes from last week. It’s one of my favorite classes, because even though I’m not great at it, I don’t have to use magic, and it can be interesting. 

Eventually, I stand up, grabbing my notebook, and wander over to Baz’s side of the room. He’s still reading his book - something about vowels in the fifteenth century. I drop my notebook on his desk and lean over Baz’s shoulder to point at a sentence I wrote a week ago, ignoring his sharp intake of breath.

“Why did this happen?” I ask, resting one hand on the back of Baz’s chair. His sweater is soft where it brushes my fingers,

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Snow, I can’t read your handwriting,” he drawls, but there’s something off in the pitch of it.

“Why did the goblins riot in the 1970’s? And my handwriting’s not  _ that _ bad,” I complain. It’s  _ legible. _ “At least you don’t need a microscope to read it.” (Baz’s handwriting is tiny and cramped, sharp letters that take up a third of the space of mine. And yet he still manages to write pages more than me on exams.)

“Trust me, Snow, your handwriting is definitely  _ that bad. _ ” Baz drawles. “I’ve heard the teachers complain about it multiple times.” I frown.  _ Penny’s _ never had a problem reading it. “The goblins rioted due to the movement in the 1960’s to push them out of London,” he finishes with the air of explaining something unbelievably basic, and I try not to feel  _ too _ offended.

“Okay, but why did they try to set the Tower Bridge on fire? That makes no sense,” I protest. Baz sighs again - I’m pretty sure he’s rolling his eyes - and starts lecturing me on what must be literally everything that happened in the twentieth century. 

I’m trying to pay attention, I really am - Baz is a surprisingly good teacher; even if his voice is dripping with  _ you should know this, _ he’s able to explain what happened with enough details for me to understand without getting overwhelmed, and there’s something almost fond in his tone that makes my chest feel warm - but goblin politics are  _ boring _ and he’s close enough to me that I can’t keep myself from being hyperaware of his presence.

Tentatively, I lift my hand from his chair and set it on Baz’s shoulder, hoping desperately that I didn’t hopelessly miss the mark of  _ casual. _ Baz tenses underneath my hand and his voice drops off for a loaded second, and when he starts talking again, it’s pitched just a little higher than normal. So I know I’m having  _ some _ effect on him.

And it can’t just be that I’m making him uncomfortable because we’re rivals, because Baz never does anything he doesn’t want to. If he wanted me to go away, he’d shove me off or snap at me - he’s never one to just let something happen to him. I’m  _ sure  _ there’s something here.

How did I miss it? If someone came up to me a week ago and told me that I would be maybe kind of in love with  _ Baz, _ my  _ sworn enemy _ , and that there was a chance he might like me back, I would have either laughed or wonder if the Humdrum had begun hypnotizing people. (Or maybe Baz, actually - that sounds like something he would do.)

“Are you paying attention?” Baz’s voice cuts into my thoughts like a splash of cool water.

“I, uh. Dragons?” I try. I’m pretty sure he said something about dragons.

Baz turns his head to look at me, and I suddenly realize that we are  _ very  _ close together. Baz’s eyes widen, and then narrow suspiciously, and he turns back around. Which, okay, disappointing, but whatever. 

“If you’re not going to listen, Snow--”

“Want to watch a movie?” I cut in, because no, I’m not going to listen, but I don’t really want to go back to watching Baz covertly from across the room either.

He doesn’t reply immediately, and I’m almost sure he’s going to tell me to fuck off, but then he lifts a hand to brush his hair out of his face (it’s falling into his eyes again and  _ fuck _ I can’t stop staring, this is  _ bad _ ) and lets out a resigned sigh. “Let me read - in  _ peace _ \- for fifteen minutes. After that, I suppose.”

“Will do,” I agree, pulling back. I let my fingers brush deliberately across the uncovered skin on Baz’s neck, and watch, entranced, as his shoulders tense.

**Baz**

Either I’m dreaming, dead (completely, for once), or he’s fucking with me.

**Simon**

Fifteen minutes turns into another half hour because Baz likes to read as much Penny and he’s twice as stubborn when it comes to refusing to put down the book, but eventually he closes it with a loud  _ snap _ (because he’s an overdramatic arsehole) and stands up. “Coming, Snow?”

“Finally,” I complain. “You’re worse than Penny.”

“If you would like me to join you in watching a movie, Snow, might I suggest dropping the mediocre insults?” he shoots back.

“Quit talking like you live in the eighteenth century.”

“Fuck you, dickhead,” Baz says primly, and a startled laugh slips past my lips. He looks almost surprised, like he hadn't quite meant to let the words slip past his lips; I grin up at him. 

If he doesn’t have actual romantic feelings for me, hopefully we’ll still be friends after this is all over.

I take a moment to imagine that, images flashing through my head. Baz sliding into the seat next to me, rolling his eyes as I smear a perfectly reasonable amount of butter onto a perfectly reasonable amount of scones. Baz catching my eye from across the classroom in Elocution. Me and Baz and Penny studying in the library - or rather, them studying and me staring out the window and daydreaming. Baz pausing before we part ways after dinner to kiss me on the cheek--

Well.

“Let’s watch the first  _ Frozen _ movie,” I say quickly, pulling myself back to the present. Baz throws me a look, somewhere between disdain and amusement, and I frown at him. “It’s a great movie!”

“You’re a child, Snow,” he says dryly.

“Simon,” I protest. He ignores me, so I roll my eyes and grab his wrist, dragging him over to his bed.

“What the  _ fuck-- _ ”

“Shut up,” I mutter, jumping up onto the mattress. Baz’s bed has at least three blankets and twice as many pillows, which means that not only is it more comfortable than mine, there’s less space for us to spread out. Baz isn’t the only one who can plot.

(Plus, it smells like him: cedar and bergamot.)

He slides in next to me and opens his laptop, typing in the password while I detangle my legs from the blankets and figure out how to get comfortable without overheating. Then I lean into him, head on his shoulder, like I’d done the previous night. 

Baz tenses. “What are you--” he starts, then cuts off with a breath that would sound almost embarrassed, if it were from anyone else.

“Hmm?” I ask, reaching up to tug at a stray lock of his hair. I shouldn’t, I really, really shouldn’t be going this far, but everything about him is so, so addictive and I’ve never been good at making smart decisions.

Baz doesn’t reply, so I grab the computer, choosing  _ Frozen _ before he gets a chance to try anything else.

**Baz**

That has to be it. He’s fucking with me. Simon finally figured out I’m in love with him, and now he’s going to humiliate me. 

(He’d never do that. He’s too  _ good. _ ) 

(There’s no other explanation.)

I like to think I’m a sensible person. Pragmatic. There is absolutely no way someone like Simon could ever harbor any sort of affection for someone like me. I’ve always known that, and I’m not going to get my hopes up otherwise.

It wasn’t that outlandish to imagine he might want to be friends with me - Simon is like that. He latches on to people. You give him an inch and he’s all in, no matter how fatuous of an idea that may be. No matter how much better off he’d be staying away.

I can understand him wanting to be friends with me, but it is beyond impossible that there’s anything else here.

Which means he’s fucking with me.

Simon Snow has curled himself around me, one hand resting lazily on my thigh, his head, as always, on my shoulder. And -- 

Crowley, I can’t do this.

“Snow,” I manage, and he looks up, hints of worry decorating his gaze.

“Simon,” he corrects me. 

I shake my head. “Why are you doing this?”  _ Because I know you’re not that cruel. _

Simon tenses, looks away. “‘M not doing anything.” He glances back up at me, looking up at me through his lashes and the brown curls falling in his face. He’s beautiful, but I can’t think about that now, because he’s about to break my heart.

If he’s going to break my heart, it has to be on my terms. I’m going to be in control.

“ _ This, _ ” I hiss, raising a hand to gesture at him, at how close we’re sitting. “You keep smiling at me, touching me, playing with my hair.  _ Why? _ ” My voice breaks, and I have to swallow back a sob. I’m not entirely successful.

_ Please, don’t let him laugh at me.  _

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he catches my gaze, eyes wide and glimmering with confusion and concern.

“Merlin, Baz, because I like you,” he says, softly.

I feel like he’s slapped me. “What?”

“Because--” Simon pulls back, clasping his hands in his lap, looking down awkwardly. “Because I like you. Have feelings for you, or whatever. God, don’t make me spell it out.”

I can’t feel my arms. Or legs. Or anything, really. “No, you don’t. Quit lying.”  _ He’s lying. _

“Why on Earth would I lie about that?”

**Simon**

He looked so scared - I had to say something. And I wanted to. What is he talking about? Anyone would be crazy not to fall in love with him.

**Baz**

“Because you figured out I’m in love with you and now you’re going to use it against me?” The words rush out of my mouth, shattering my world, turning my blood to ice.

And then he  _ kisses  _ me.

**Simon**

I couldn’t not.

How could Baz think that?

He’s  _ in love _ with me?

**Baz**

Simon’s kissing me. One hand in my hair, the other resting on my waist. I bring both hands up to cup his face, fingertips tracing his cheekbones.

He’s touching me like I’m something fragile, something that means the world to him.

The world slows down, for once, and I relax.

**Simon**

After what feels like forever, Baz’s words sink in, and I pull back. I’m basically sitting in his lap -- when did  _ that _ happen? -- and Baz’s hands fall to my waist.

“Do you really think I would do that?” I ask, neutrally.

“Never,” he replies immediately. “You’re too good.” Baz sighs, sinking back into the wall, letting his head fall back to rest against it. “But what else could it be?”

“I love you,” I say, unthinking. Baz’s eyes widen, shocked, and I open my mouth again before he can say anything. “I love you, Baz, that’s what else.” 

It’s true. I wasn’t sure before, but looking at him now, I know it. He’s  _ Baz. _ He’s whip-smart and ruthless, but he’s also soft and kind and terrified the world will reject him. He’s perfect, all of it.

“Simon,” he says, and my eyes widen. “I’m a  _ monster. _ You were right, all along, I’m a vampire, I’m horrible,  _ you can’t-- _ ”

“Hush,” I cut in, laying a finger on his lips. “I’ve known you were a vampire for years. It doesn’t matter. You’re not a monster, love. It’s not your fault you were Turned.”

“All these years, you thought I was,” he protests.

“Because you were an arsehole, not because you were a vampire,” I tell him, and he laughs a little.

“That’s not going to change,” Baz warns me, lips pulling up into an almost-smirk.

“Yeah, well, I’m also an arsehole, so I think it’ll work out fine.”

“I love you, too,” he says, and he takes me by the back of the neck.

\----

We don’t end up watching  _ Frozen, _ but I fall asleep with Baz halfway on top of me, fingers of one hand entangled with mine, my free arm holding him close, so I’m content to wait.


	7. Day 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Penny, you have missed a lot.

**Baz**

Everything is warm.

I haven’t been this warm since I was five years old, since I was really alive. I feel like I’m lying in a meadow, bathed in sunlight. If I open my eyes, I’ll see clear skies and wildflowers.

Or, no. It’s more like a warm bath, the heat wrapping itself around me, pressing into every bone of my body, comforting as a hug.

A soft breath slips through my lips and I shift, curling further into the warmth. I could stay like this forever.

But - I’m waking up now, thoughts and logic shifting into place like a puzzle; aware enough for questions to start bubbling up sharp and suspicious as ever.  _ What is this? _

I frown, raising a hand to rub my eyes, the naïve desire to stay unaware and content warring with ever-present wariness, and--

“Good morning, darling,” Simon says softly, and I freeze.

The events come flooding back, the bubble of sleepiness gone in an instant. I open my eyes in shock. Simon’s face is about six inches from mine, chin propped up on his forearms, resting on my chest.

Pure, blinding exhilaration floods my bloodstream and I let myself grin at him for just a second before schooling my face into a soft smile. “This isn’t a dream, then?” 

“I sure hope not,” Simon replies earnestly. He leans in to kiss me, but I raise my hand to block him.

“Spare me from your morning breath, Snow.”  _ Please don’t spare me. _

And, because he will never cease pushing my limits, Simon rolls his eyes, laces his fingers with my protesting hand, and takes advantage of what  _ that _ does to me to press his lips to mine.

Our combined morning breath is confirmed to be horrifying, needless to say, but I can’t bring myself to care. Kissing Simon is very quickly becoming my favorite pastime.

“I love you,” I murmur against his lips, and Simon pulls back, grinning down at me. He’s beautiful, as always - hair mussed from sleeping and my hands raking through it, face flushed, lips red. “You’re amazing.”

“That’s something I never thought I’d hear you say,” he says, lifting one hand to trace the angles of my face; fingertips outlining my cheekbones, jawline, the hollow beneath my chin. 

“Don’t get used to it, this doesn’t mean I’m going to be nice to you,” I warn him.

“That would be too weird,” he agrees, then leans down to kiss me again. He’s very good at this - maybe I’ll thank Wellbelove next time I see her.

“When did you realize?” I ask him. I’d really rather kiss him than talk, but I  _ am _ curious.

Simon hums, speculative. “Yesterday morning, I think?”

_ “Yesterday morning?” _ I demand.  _ I’ve been dealing with this for  _ years.

“Yeah, that’s when I figured it out. I think I’ve liked you for a while.” He frowns. “Fifth year looks a little different now.”

“You’re an idiot,” I tell him, then guide him back down into range. I tangle my fingers into his hair as he peppers kisses over my cheeks, nose, forehead.

And then the door slams open.

“Simon, why haven’t you been answering my texts?” Bunce demands, and then freezes, because there is absolutely no hiding this. Simon leaning over me,  _ kissing me _ , my hands in his hair, his bed untouched--

Well. At least we don’t have to have  _ that _ awkward conversation.

Simon jerks back, panicked, and tumbles off the bed--I almost laugh, but I’m a little too worried about how Bunce will react to finding her best friend snogging his vampire roommate. Nemesis. So instead, I push myself up (thank Merlin I sleep in a sweater) and send her an apprehensive smile.

Bunce’s face is rapidly morphing from shocked to amused. “Well. I can’t say I expected this, but. Rather makes sense,” she muses. “Actually, a lot of sense. How long has this been going on?”

“L-last night,” Simon stutters.

“Does it really?” I ask.

“Fifth year, particularly,” Bunce decides, and the back of Simon’s neck flushes red. “Well, I was coming to say that the spell has lifted and they’re serving scones at lunch, but you two are clearly busy, so…”

“Scones?” Simon yelps, and I lift a hand to muffle my laugh. He jumps up, then spins to look back at me. “Baz, scones,  _ c’mon _ .”

\--

Simon stubbornly insists on holding my hand the entire walk from Mummers to where he and Bunce normally sit--I have never been this happy to have the entire school’s eyes on me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done!!!! I'm pretty happy with this, though I have to admit it got out of hand. I was expecting it to be 7k, maybe 10k? Oh well...
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life :D


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